Ah, another enjoyable blasphemous Mark Morford column, "How to talk trash with Almighty God."
I like the ending, after Morford blasts God for all the crap life continues to be filled with after many millenia of worship, reverence, bowing and scraping, and all that.
But you know what? It doesn't seem to matter. Mock or no mock, praise or no praise, we get nailed, over and over again, no matter what. Sickened, crushed, bloodied, heartbroken, ruined, revived and rejuvenated, only to be ruined once again. We drop that damn ball, over and over again, every single day. So much for praise.
Unless ... wait, unless we've been going about this God thing all wrong? Unless you're actually not some sort of scowling robe-clad deity hanging out right there in the end zone, the political rally, the mosque or temple or shrine, but are rather this sort of indefinable hum and thrust and pulse, constant and forever, emanating from and penetrating into everything at all times everywhere? Because that would be weird.
That would mean everything, all the noise and death and joy, all the bliss and sickness and grief throughout time and eternity, they are all just myriad expressions, facets, faces of the divine pulse. How could that possibly be right? How can we possibly get our angry, needful, aching minds and hearts around that? And what are we gonna do with all this goddamn brimstone?